


if you do whip her from time to time

by azurejay (andchimeras)



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Birthday, Caning, Crying, Established Relationship, F/M, Fisting, Future Fic, Gags, Gen, Kink, Multi, Polyamory, Restraint, Sado-Masochism, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-23
Updated: 2010-06-23
Packaged: 2017-10-09 16:22:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/89370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andchimeras/pseuds/azurejay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A snapshot of a birthday gift. (Male top/female bottom, if that squicks you.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	if you do whip her from time to time

**Author's Note:**

> Title paraphrased from Story of O: "As a matter of fact...if you do tie her up from time to time, or whip her just a little, and she begins to like it, that's no good either. You have to get past the pleasure stage, until you reach the stage of tears."

Ashlee's eyes are round and red-rimmed and damp and so impossibly silver-grey above the black demi-mask strapped over her mouth and chin. Her nostrils are also red-rimmed and damp and wide. Her pale cheeks are streaked with tears; her hair hangs sweaty and golden over her forehead, over her shoulders. She shakes and strains against the mask, her cries echoing inside it, her arms above her head, stretched as far as they can go, shackled to an eyebolt in the wall of Patrick's spare room. Her fingertips are pink; her wrists are pink around the edges of the black suspension cuffs. Her elbows hit the wall as she struggles, after every blow. Thin red stripes crosshatch the undersides of her biceps, the bare rise of her breasts, the curves of her thighs.

A swat lands on her left calf and she shrieks, jumps unsteadily, lands on her feet, knock-kneed, barely balanced. She is drawn up by the short chain between the cuffs and the eyebolt. She tries to kick Patrick when he comes in close, but he drops the cane and reaches for her. His fingers dig in behind her knee, find and address a pressure point that has her keening, fresh tears running down her face as he pins her other leg to the wall with his hip, mouth firm and focused, eyes trained on her face, warmly tracking her flinch and strain. She can just taste the salt as her tears leak behind the mask. She inhales sharply and relaxes into his grip, adrenaline chased by endorphins.

Patrick crouches and shoulders her legs apart, buckles more cuffs around her ankles and clips them to more eyebolts, so she's up on the balls of her feet; so she feels herself pinned to the wall like a poster, like a trophy, like a specimen about to be thoroughly examined.

She tears her eyes away from Patrick snapping blue quarter-length gloves on without taking his watch or wedding ring off. She finds Pete in the corner, in a blue armchair, slouched down and as pale as she is, knees spread, fingers interlaced on his stomach.

He looks up at her hanging against the wall, like some unlikely porn heroine, his eyes and his face alight. He smiles at her, gently, happily. She feels Patrick back between her thighs, his sweater not quite scratching against fresh welts, the gloves pulling uncomfortably at her pubic hair, a sudden liquid golden heat bathing her clit and hole and his hand, warm under the chill slick of lube, working its way inside of her. She flexes and opens her hips, anticipatory and eager. She hasn't been fisted in so long.

Behind the mask, Ashlee smiles back at Pete, and when he mouths, "Happy birthday," she wails, "Thank you," and as his knuckles press at her cervix, Patrick says, "You're welcome."


End file.
